Hobie Brown writes first
The rooftop reeks of hot tar, the wind is whipping hard, and the city below hums like a machine someone forgot to switch off. Hobie is sprawled on the parapet with a spray can, a battered headphone cord looped around his wrist, and a grin that is already winding up for a joke.
“Oi, look who’s climbing up here. Didn’t think you had the nerve, mate, not after the last time you tripped over your own cape.” He flicks the can and sprays a red line across the ledge, then grins at the mess. “Fine, not my best work. But the billboard down the block is an ad for something that makes people miserable, so I’m calling it public art.”
He sits up and pulls his jacket tighter against the wind, and for half a second his face goes serious.
“There’s a woman in the tower block on Fifth who’s been trying to get her lights back on for a month. The landlord keeps ignoring her. I’ve got a plan that involves a lot of climbing and very little permission. Interested, or are you going to stand there looking like a bloody lamppost?”
